


traded out holding hands to holding back everything

by makeitbetter



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M, and a lot of talk about the weather, don't let the title fool you it's not completely sad, it's just a lot of pining TM, the others only appear briefly tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeitbetter/pseuds/makeitbetter
Summary: because that’s something that is true of anyone in love with their best friend.//(or: neither of them talk about their feelings)





	traded out holding hands to holding back everything

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to reiterate that this, once again, is dumb. title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CT2wgON_rzQ) song.

it’s typical, that’s what it is.

it’s typical that you’re sitting in the corner with a pint and stewing in your feelings when you should be caught up on that post-gig high like the others, feeling like you could do anything.

it’s just typical, it _really_ is, because paul’s had a night of everyone telling him how great he is, and you’ve had a night of liquid courage that continues to fizzle out, of pretending not to look because you won’t let yourself - _can’t let yourself_ \- because that’s something that is true of anyone in love with their best friend.

**/**

you’re waiting at the bus stop in the rain, soaked through to the skin, when paul suddenly asks the question that feels like it’s been hanging in the air ever since you left the pub.

“are you okay?”

your fingers curl to form fists in the pockets of your jacket. there’s nothing to busy your hands with - you can’t even light a fucking cigarette in this weather.

“why?”

paul frowns. “you look kind of tired. that's all.”

now you’re the one that’s frowning, because he’s hit the nail on the head there, because you _are_ tired - tired of pretending like everything is still exactly the way it was, it always has been, it always _will be_.

“it’s nothing.” and then, because this is the way it always is, you paint on a smile that’s more teeth than anything else. “don’t worry your pretty little head about it, paulie.”

paul rolls his eyes, and - for now - that’s the end of it.

**/**

you’re all lounging around in pete’s garage to practice before the next gig on saturday, when someone suggests a smoke break.

it’s raining again, _of course it bloody is, _but the sun is still out there on the horizon, still covering everything in a hue of sepia, and paul laughs and tilts his head towards the sky, and if you’re staring because it’s a stunning sight to see, well, the only one paying enough attention to bear witness is stuart.

stuart just pulls a face because he’s already told you one too many times that, in his eyes, you’re being _way too obvious_.

(maybe you are, just a little bit.)

**/ **

none of it matters, in the end.

it comes out because the truth always comes out. it comes out because stuart can’t keep his bloody mouth shut when he’s had more beer after a gig than he can actually handle, when he can’t stop himself from making a stupid joke, something about the bloke at the bar and _those pretty ones are always your type, isn’t that right, john?_ two seconds before he claps a hand over his mouth like a fucking mime, eyes wide in horror as you stare at him feeling like someone has just come along and kicked you in the gut.

when you manage to drag your eyes away long enough to glance at the other two that are with you, it’s even worse. george is frowning like he’s trying to catch up with the turn this conversation has taken, and paul - paul looks at you with those pretty eyes of his like he’s about to cry right there on the spot, because too much silence has gone unfilled for you to try and pass this off as a joke. not that you could anyway, because stuart’s reaction speaks loud enough as it is, louder than you ever could, louder than the echo of the hail storm outside.

**/**

you get home and lock yourself in your room, muttering some throwaway excuse about coming down with something. you don’t want to see anyone, anyway.

stuart has a semi-permanent vigil outside your door for the next two days, knocking and knocking and knocking, an endless chorus of _john, john, let me in, i never should’ve said that, john, please, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry -_

the rain hammers against the window, unrelenting.

**/ **

it’s three days later that the knocking resumes.

you’re about ready to break your silence just to tell stuart that he can fuck off if he’s about to start that grovelling shit again because it isn’t helping his case, but the words die in your throat when the quiet voice calling your name from the other side of the door doesn’t belong to him.

paul apologises for not coming sooner, for not following you as soon as you left the pub, for not knowing what to say right away when it should have been obvious because you’re his best mate. he goes on and on, round and round in the same circle, and you still don’t answer but not for the same reason you didn’t answer stuart. you don’t answer because, really, paul is not the one who should be apologising - this is _your_ issue, not his.

“johnny?” he tries again, and when you still don’t reply, he sighs and the door creaks like he’s leaning on it, like he could force his way in by making the lock give. when he speaks again, it’s almost quiet enough for you to mishear it. “you’re not the only one, you know.”

for a moment, it’s like there’s a break in the clouds.

**/ **

it’s a thursday afternoon when paul knocks again, and this time you open the door. you’ve missed the sight of his stupid face more than you would ever admit to.

he sits at the end of your bed, toying with the hem of his jumper, and tells you that he’s sorry (_again_) for not saying the right thing, that he’s been talking to stuart (because _of course_ he has, _of course_ stuart is running his fucking mouth again) who’s been saying some interesting things in the hopes that it might fix the mess they’ve found themselves in.

“_interesting?_” you raise an eyebrow. “_interesting_ how?”

“well -” paul glances up, meeting your eyes “- he said you liked me.”

“of course he fucking did. _christ_.”

“so it’s true, then?”

you nod then, because there’s no use in denying it now. you apologise too, as you should have been doing all along, because there might be no use in denying it, but it’s still sent everything important to you up shit creek.

paul frowns at you like he can’t understand why you would even apologise in the first place.

“i’m not angry,” he says.

“why not?” you ask, because literally anybody else would be (paul isn’t just anybody, though, you learned that a long time ago).

he opens his mouth and then hesitates as if he can’t find the right words, but before you can say anything else, tell him to just spit it out because you’re not getting any bleeding younger, he reaches out across the space between you and takes your hand in his, and, really, it’s not that big of a revelation.

except it _is_.

**/ **

“hey.” paul’s at the window all of a sudden, and for a moment you’re still too caught up on the way you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours to notice what he’s saying. “johnny, look. the rain’s finally stopped.”


End file.
